Absolutely True Lies Page 11

  I just took my credit card out of my wallet and numbly handed it over to her. I shouldn’t have even had a card with a limit that high, but for once, I was thankful that a lot of banks like to hand out irresponsible lines of credit. And I couldn’t give her my debit card because the bill exceeded my daily limit. By a lot.

  Minka ran the card and then handed me a pen to sign the sales slip. I no longer cared that she was giggling inside at my misery. If she wanted to be the wicked bitch of Miami, I was all for it.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yes,” I sighed, taking my credit card back and instantly handing her my debit card in exchange. “Can you please book me a ticket home?”

  • • •

  The earliest flight Minka could find was a 5:00 P.M. that stopped in Atlanta for some reason. I spent my entire afternoon trying to call Jameson, but his phone was—of course—off while he was in the air. I knew that they had a direct flight and had landed by the time I made it to Hartsfield-Jackson, but he still didn’t answer. I wondered if he was avoiding me. As though I wasn’t eventually going to bring this up, even if it involved driving to the house and banging on the front door.

  My second flight didn’t take off until after 9:00 P.M., and with the time difference, I landed just after 10:00 P.M. Pacific time. I still had no return call from Jamie, and I’d just realized I now had to pay to get my car out of long-term parking, at a bargain price of sixteen dollars a day.

  Depressed, I tried to call Camille on my drive home, but Donnie said she was still at a casting session for STD Island 2: Hot, Wet, and Dangerous (it wasn’t really called STD Island, but I’m sure you’ve guessed I can’t say the name). He tried to talk to me with food in his mouth, presumably his favorite Hershey’s miniatures, but he gave me the heebie-jeebies even over the phone, so I quickly ended the conversation.

  I thought about calling Vaughn, but I knew I shouldn’t. He probably thought I’d stood him up yesterday, not to mention that the act of calling him for a pick-me-up at this hour was all-around inappropriate. I barely knew the guy, despite our late-night balcony dinner.

  So I drove back to my tiny shack of a studio apartment with the sudden—and unwelcome—realization that nothing had really changed in my life. In the last several days, I’d glimpsed a flashier, more glamorous existence, but it wasn’t mine. In most ways, I was grateful for that. God knows I had no interest in spending my days with vapid Hollywood hangers-on . . . but I would have appreciated keeping just a tiny bit of that sheen on my everyday life.

  Despite the new job and my new friends, I was still going home—alone—to a neighborhood the local grandmothers liked to call Diablorado Street. By the time I dragged my suitcase up to the second floor, my neighbor’s apartment was already dark and I had to accept the fact that I would have to spend the night without my Smitty.

  It was all I could do to put on my pajamas and crawl into bed. I was exhausted, but I wasn’t really sleepy. I felt defeated, like I’d just wasted weeks of my life on an enterprise that no one would believe, anyway. My last thought before the blessed blackness of sleep was that at that moment, I didn’t care so much about being a writer anymore. I’d built it up in my head as this magical profession that made all your dreams come true, but it wasn’t magic at all. It was just as harsh and real as anything else in life . . . and I desperately needed to believe that the good would come right along with the bad. I needed to believe it would eventually balance out.

  CHAPTER 9

  I once read in a tabloid that Harley-Davidson was gifting me the new model of their motorcycle six months before it was shipped to their showrooms. Aside from the fact that I don’t even ride motorcycles, I would never expect anything for free. When you see that every girl has the same purse I bought a month ago, you might think I carried it around because I had a sponsorship deal. But that’s not true. I love the things I love and I’m happy to pay for them. If my fans like and admire my taste, there’s really no better compliment!

  “You’re going to ask them for the money, right?” Camille asked me the next day.

  I was three bites into an enormous chocolate chip cookie and ice cream sandwich, so I shrugged rather than talk with my mouth full. We sat at a little table on the street in Westwood, watching all the lucky rich kids from UCLA go about their business. I had checked my bank account on the way over to make sure that I could still afford to eat my way through Diddy Riese’s homemade cookies if I so chose.

  “Seriously, I invoice people all the time. Just give Daisy’s manager copies of all of your receipts, and include an itemized list. That way he can’t claim he ‘missed one.’ ”

  I nodded like I was processing information, but I wasn’t really listening. I mean, I heard what Cam had to say, but the words just existed as free-form syllables floating through my broken brain.

  “Sure,” I said confidently, hoping she would mistake it for real understanding. Of course, she didn’t.

  “Don’t just shake your head at me,” Camille shot back. “I can see that you’re about to turn this into a twenty-pound-weight-gain depression about how your life and career are going nowhere. So stop it now. It’s not your fault that Los Angeles is chock-full of morally challenged, worthless jerks who only care about themselves.”

  I gulped down a mouthful of chocolate chip goodness by way of an answer.

  Camille just sighed. “Really, Holly. I’m here for you—you know that. But I’m not going to be a guest at your pity party. Things aren’t great, but I bet they’re really not as bad as you’re acting like they are. Break out your contract, threaten a war of the agents, and get your ass paid.”

  “Have you seen my agent?”

  “No.” She shrugged.

  “Neither have I in over a year. So I don’t think he’s going to rush to help me, especially since he already cashed his commission check.” I was in full-on pout mode, my lower lip even protruding slightly. This felt like the end of the world, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone who wouldn’t help pack the bunker and prepare for the coming Apocalypse.

  “Okay, little Miss Melodrama . . .” Camille leaned over and used her spoon to swipe some of the ice cream from the center of my sandwich. Greedily, I pulled my bowl away. I needed all of my consolation calories, and she couldn’t have them. “You don’t need your agent for anything other than his name and job title. Threaten Jamie Lloyd with Gus the Grave Robber and he’ll fold. But let him walk all over you now and you’ll never see the rest of your commission or any royalties.”

  Camille was right but I didn’t want to hear it. I immediately registered the sense in her words, but I was too far in my funk to really care, so I filed the wisdom away for later use and focused on the board inside the ice cream shop. I couldn’t decide if I wanted a sugar or peanut butter cookie next. My only certainty was that I wouldn’t leave until my jeans were tight enough to constrict blood flow to my brain.

  “And while I’m dispensing unwanted but necessary advice, you should call Vaughn.” She gave me her all-business stare-down, which had often silenced even the most wanton whorish reality show contestant. I glared back at her, just to let her know I wasn’t intimidated.

  “And what would I say?” I asked, burying my face in the all too quickly disappearing ice cream. “I don’t even know what that was about. I’m sure he was just being friendly and I was reading too much into it.”

  At this, Camille finally gave in to her irritation with me and rolled her eyes. “If you insist on acting like a fucking infant, at least go home so that the rest of the world doesn’t have to put up with your attitude. No one wants to go to your pity party.”

  Like a straight-A student reprimanded by her favorite teacher, I instantly felt guilty. It wasn’t enough to pull me out of my funk, but I did finally get the message to tone down my theatrics. I stayed silent, but offered her a contrite, if wan, smile.

 
“All right, then,” Camille said, taking a swipe of her own rainbow sherbet. Even when she’s being bad, it’s in the healthiest possible way. It’s revolting. “Another minute and I was going to smack you across the face.”

  • • •

  The next morning, I nervously put the finishing touches on my invoice and receipts and drove over to Kinko’s to fax them to Jamie. I’d been up all night adding and re-adding the numbers in my bank account, willing them to somehow come out in my favor. This is my particular brand of mental disease; I can wake up at 4:00 A.M. to pee and then spend the next three hours counting how many times I thoughtlessly went out for lunch when I should have had a three-dollar frozen meal.

  I got back home around 11:00 A.M., knowing I should actually start to write Daisy’s autobiography. I had enough to at least begin, but to be honest, given the Dixson’s recent financial shenanigans, I wasn’t terribly inclined to do any work. So three seconds inside the door, I was bored out of my mind. I could’ve turned on the TV and watched one of my two hundred new channels, but the very idea made me feel guilty. Maybe I had been rash ordering cable in the first place; I should’ve just borrowed some more B-movies from the library and called it a day.

  My cell phone rang and I had to force myself not to answer it on the first ring when I saw that the caller was Jamie. Trying to seem sensible (and not at all desperate), I waited until the third ring to pick up.

  “Oh, hey, Jamie,” I said. As soon as I spoke, my teeth began chattering furiously, and I had to keep my mouth deliberately open to keep them from clanging into the speaker.

  “Hols, I just got this invoice you sent over,” he said.

  Oh, crap. He sure didn’t sound like someone about to apologize for his thoughtlessness. “Uh, yeah . . .” I answered, still feigning nonchalance. “Sorry I didn’t get that to you yesterday.”

  “No prob,” Jamie replied. “Most people let these things go for so long I forget about the bill to begin with.”

  I exhaled so deeply I’m pretty sure I lost a couple of pounds. “I just wanted to keep on top of it.” I felt a little bolder, but it still took every ounce of my nerve to continue. “But since the next installment of my fee is due on Thursday, you can just write one check if it’s easier.”

  “Awesome,” Jamie said quickly. “Can you come out to the house on Thursday to work with Daise? Then we can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Absolutely,” I replied, now having the opposite problem of trying not to sound too eager. “What time should I be there?”

  “Let’s say noon,” he answered. “And if she’s not up by then, the two of you can have a little slumber party.”

  I shuddered at the thought but said, “Looking forward to it.”

  “Awesome,” Jamie said again, immediately hanging up on me. It had happened so many times now, I wasn’t even offended anymore.

  Now that things seemed more secure, I should’ve broken out my laptop and gotten to work. Instead, I took a decadently long, carefree nap. I deserved it. I still had plenty of time to start writing.

  • • •

  On Thursday, I presented myself at the Dixson estate promptly at twelve. Unfortunately, no one was home. The guard looked perplexed as I pulled up to the gate.

  “Maybe you were supposed to come by on Saturday?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I talked to Jamie two days ago. He told me to come to the house today.”

  The guard shook his head right back at me. “Maybe you heard him wrong. Did he tell you to go to the studio?”

  “Um . . . no,” I repeated. I knew perfectly well what he’d said. I have the memory of an autistic savant. I can remember whole sections of dialogue from episodes of Beverly Hills, 90210 I haven’t seen since 1993.

  “I think that must be it.” The guard nodded, like I was simple. “I’m sure Mr. Lloyd told you to go to the studio, and you just forgot. Happens to all of us.”

  “And what studio would that be?” I asked. With Daisy’s random schedule, she could be working on anything from a music video to a Neutrogena commercial to an abstinence PSA. How the hell would I know where she was shooting? L.A. has more soundstages than fake blondes with barely legal boob jobs.

  “Sunset and Vine,” the guard said. “I know security down there. I’ll call and let them know you’re coming.”

  “Thanks.”

  The guard winked at me. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you accidentally came here first.”

  • • •

  On my ride down to Hollywood, I tried to let go of my growing irritation with the Dixson entourage. I was being paid to join in this madness, which meant my personal time was irrelevant. I had to accept that inconvenience and frustration were par for the course. Just as I’d successfully brought my blood pressure back down to normal, my phone rang. Zen was not to be found today—it was my mother.

  “Hi, Mom.” She was the last person I wanted to talk to right now, but I wanted one of her rambling messages even less.

  “Holly Ann. Sweetheart.” Her tone was measured, even. Slightly disappointed. Which meant I was about to get a lecture. At least it wasn’t one of her angry, what-is-wrong-with-you moods. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “No, Mom,” I told her. I nearly sighed into the phone, but caught myself. This wasn’t a question of whether or not I’d had a few too many drinks, this was the rest of my life. Though I hated to admit it, she had every right to be concerned. “Again, just the people I’m working for. I guess they needed to say something to the press, though I don’t know why they picked that.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the phone. It was never a good sign when my mother wasn’t prepared with another comeback or line of questioning. “Because they weren’t thinking of you,” she said.

  I laughed. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m glad you’re having fun with your job—Uncle Bob says this Jamie guy is a lot of laughs—but please be careful.”

  There were a million things I could have said to this, not the least of which was that these are people who either directly or indirectly employ hundreds. They may have been weird and thoughtless, but I highly doubted they would intentionally try to hurt me. “I will be.”

  “I mean it, Holly,” my mom said, sounding less than convinced. “Like I said before, these people are not your friends.”

  My ego deflated. I didn’t try to hide my sigh this time. “I’ll be careful, Mom.”

  “Good. I love you, sweetheart.”

  “Love you, too, Mom.” She had the ability to make me crazier than anyone else in the world, but I really did love her. Even when she managed to destroy my self-confidence in a two-minute phone call.

  • • •

  By the time I reached the studio at Sunset and Vine, the temperature gauge on my car was dangerously close to the red. In anyone else’s car, this might be a sign of impending doom, but my rust bucket has about a ninety-minute drive time limit and I had just traveled from one end of the city to the other . . . and back again.

  Daisy’s guard was as good as his word, and the gate security gave me a day pass and politely pointed me in the direction of the visitor parking lot. It was a cute little studio, with several soundstages and warehouses, made up to look like a tree-lined small town. The sidewalks were lined with benches, and there was a small commissary with a window for takeout and ice cream.

  Had I not been in quite such a mood, I’m sure I would have been charmed by the studio. After all, I didn’t get to spend a lot of time in places like this. Camille’s “reality” programs were always shot during the off-season at some exotic resort hotel, and most of my other friends never invited anyone to visit them on set. As one told me when justifying his refusal to bring his mother to the major TV show he was lighting, “Everybody works. Production is a tough game. I don’t want my electricians c
hatting up my mom and accidentally starting a fire.” After hearing that, I made the decision never to ask. So this should have been more exciting.

  In front of the commissary, I recognized a couple of tween stars doing stunts with their skateboards. I wasn’t sure what show they were from, but I knew my little cousin had their poster plastered to her bedroom wall. It instantly struck me as odd that these kids, who could buy and sell me a million times over, were actually playing out in the street. They were acting like real live, normal kids. It was like watching chimps do long division.

  Because the lot was relatively tiny, it took me less than five minutes to find Stage 3. I knew I was in the right place when I spotted Axel smoking up a storm in front of a trailer. He spotted me and blew a kiss.

  “Since when do you smoke?” I asked, giving him a hug.

  “Ugh, since I gained two pounds,” he replied. “I looked in the mirror the other day and I’m totally getting a tummy.” He reached out and patted my stomach. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m not really pregnant, remember?”

  Axel eyed me strangely. “Of course I remember. I’m the one who made it up.”

  Okay, so he was just calling me fat. Whatever. I was growing impervious to their digs about my body. “Do you know if I’m supposed to work with Daisy today? Jamie told me to go to the house, but then the guard told me everyone was here.”

  Axel shrugged. “I don’t know . . . but I would be careful around Daisy Mae if I were you. Kitty has her claws out today.”

  Perfect. “Do you know where she is?”

  Axel nodded toward the enormous, hangar-like stage in front of us. “She has her own little bungalow behind the stage. Last time I saw her, she was crying about how Steve Jobs wouldn’t give her the newest version of the iPhone.”

  “I thought that didn’t come out until fall.” I’m not really a techie, but I’ve wanted—and been unable to afford—the iPhone since it was first released. So every year I lie and tell myself I’ll get the next model. Some year I’m bound to be right.